The Merle Dixon Charitable Foundation
by what evil lurks
Summary: Merle gets some action. At last.


**The Merle Dixon Charitable Foundation**

**AN: hello ladies! You can blame Brazen Hussy for this one! See her review on Muthawalker's Marol story, the Devil You Know. It gave me an idea and just for fun I knocked it out. I'm sure as ardent Merle fans (and authors) you will be able to guess which ffnet authors appear in the story (by kind permission); we're a small club… **

**As to whether any of these sexual activities are actually true of those represented in real life – let's just say I have used my artistic license and run a long way with it! For myself, I refuse to confirm or deny any sexual representations made below! Names have been with-held to protect the guilty, but if anyone wants to make a guess as to which of our lovely authoresses appear below, I will let you know if you've got it right. **

**AU obviously. Rated for profanity – c'mon, this is Merle!**

Merle Dixon laced his fingers behind his head and rested, long legs splayed out, on the king size bed. He wore a clean white wifebeater and faded grey jeans, large bare feet poking out the bottom of his pant legs. He was recently showered, had a fifth of rye on the bedside table beside him, and life was good.

Damn chicks from the Foundation were wearing him out. But in a good way. He hadn't thought too much of it when Daryl's friend Short Round had set up the website for him. (Kid was alright for a slant-eye). Figured the only kinda women it would attract, despite the photos of Merle lookin as hot as a depot stove in June, would be the desperate types. Not that Merle had always turned down a desperate woman in the past. But some of these chicks had turned out to be downright hotties, and as for the fugly ones… well, all cats were grey in the dark.

He was getting so much action he was gonna hafta reserve Saturday and Sunday; Saturday for picking up some free-range pussy himself down at Skanky Joe's Hooch Joint, just ta keep his hand in, and Sunday to shoot shit with the guys and recover from all the horizontal activity. Hell, he deserved it, after bein stuck in Woodbury doing community service while he was on probation for a year, never got any action what with all the do-gooders and psalmsingers there, with their fuckin PTA and soccer moms and fucking Sunday afternoon barbecues.

Merle reflected back on the fine selection of ass that he'd encountered this last week, all courtesy of the Foundation.

Monday had been a tall chick from Buttfuck Wisconsin. Chick had been able to look him in the eye, and there weren't too many that could do that. He'd quickly realised that he'd met her once before, when he was passing through the foyer of some weird-shit convention going on. She'd mistaken him for some actor and asked for a photo. For a laugh he'd gone along with it, and she got down on her knees in front of him to take the shot. He'd had plenty to say to her about that, and she'd just laughed and played along. And more recently, when it came to the flat-out folkdancin, chick had stamina! She was fit and in good shape, and more than ready for several go-rounds.

Tuesday's broad was a different kettle of fish, or should he say "fush". She had a weird-ass accent that he had some trouble understanding, til he caught on that when she said "duck" she meant "dick". Turned out she was from NZ where they all sounded weird. This bitch had curves in places other women didn't even have places, with a real nice pair of F-cups. Merle had heard it said that more than a handful was a waste; but then he'd always had damn big hands. Bitch was downright kinky too. He'd never had an issue with dishin out a good spanking.

Wednesday brought him another An-tip-o-deean, this one from the vast desert continent of Australia. She'd brought him a thoughtful gift, being a knitted vest she'd made herself. Normally he wouldn't go near such a thing, it being way too close to a cardigan, and only pansies wore cardigans. But this one was steel-grey, knitted up in workings called lichen stitch, or moss stitch or some damn thing. Around the edges it had narrow grey leather lacing woven in like the edging on an old fashioned blanket. The buttons were flat stainless steel, embossed with deaths-heads, and the Triumph logo was worked in black over one side of the chest. "Honey baby I love what you made for me", he told her, and promptly modelled it for her, wearing nothing else but his bikers boots and a big grin. It was gonna come in downright handy under his leather vest when riding the bike on a cold winter's night in Georgia.

Thursday continued the Southern Hemisphere theme, with another Australian "Sheila". She claimed she was from the Aussie version of Buttfuck, callin it "Bakkaburke". He figured that must be some darkie name, they had all sorts of weirdass names Down Under. What the fuck was wrong with plain old American names? This chick was kinda edgy and seemed a little shy, and to be honest she freaked him out just a little – but in a good way. Turned out she had some kinda deal with her old man that if she ever ran into the actor he resembled, (but of course Merle was much better-lookin than), she had a "get outa jail free card". Merle had no qualms about taking advantage of her error. Chick knew her way around, and had some… _interesting_… suggestions. But what was with all the questions about his baby bro?

Friday moved the action back to the Northern Hemisphere. Gotta love those Brits. Sound so "posh" but get 'em on their backs and it's another story. This dame had it where it counted, and that was the hard truth. And when they were relaxin between rounds, Merle found out that she was an aficio-nado of seventies TV shows, and god knows he'd watched a damn sight of them when he was practically a Prisoner at Woodbury. Nuthin much else to do there, the town was in some damn signal pocket where they could only get the sports channel, fox news, and a retro channel with 60's and 70's programs. Merle and "Lady Penelope" had fun talking about who had the best car, the Dukes or Michael Knight. Then they had fun of another sort.

Yup, setting up the Merle Dixon Charitable Foundation for the Giving of Dick was pretty much the best idea he'd ever had. Life was good indeed.


End file.
